


Pity Party

by Cephied_Variable



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 06:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephied_Variable/pseuds/Cephied_Variable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>>DAVE: examine your life, examine your choices</p><p>examine the fact that troll love is based on pity, not fondness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pity Party

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [kink meme](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/5870.html?thread=4958958#t4958958) _with actual vaguely sexual content this time_. I think I am literally half AO3's Dave/Terezi tag at this point. This shit you are about to read is so fluffy I think my hands have transformed into coolwhip and foamy pink insulation.

“Do many humans have such delicious eyes?” she whispers against his ear as the sunglasses come off, “Or are you just special?”

“I’m so special Lifetime is showing a movie about me. It’s got a title like ‘Angel Eyes’ or ‘Heaven’s Gaze’ or something. The story of an orphaned boy with magical albino eyes that can see ghosts or something. Terezi, come on-” she holds the shades just out of reach and grins as she drops them off the bed.

Dave primes himself to argue, to lurch forwards and retrieve them but she’s already got about six clever, sharp fingers under his shirt, “Not tonight, cool kid. Tonight I want you to look at me.”

“Shit, can you even tell if I’m looking at you or not?”

“Sorta,” she pouts, cheeks puffed out like a five year old. It would be kind of charming were they not about to have sex. Sex is generally the point at which you want your partner to at least attempt this looking like a grown up thing, “But they are rare, right? Really rare? _Exceptionally_ rare?”

“What is it with you and my eyes?” Dave manages to sound properly exasperated even with her fingers curling over his spine in exploration, “Yeah, it’s a weird thing, Tz. Most people have it as a side-order to being like pasty delicate paper cranes that catch fire in the noon sun.”

“Are they culled?” she blinks, honestly curious. Like, that is a real question she is asking.

Point when you should maybe consider your life and re-examine your choices: when your girlfriend(ish. Girlfriendish) asks you all causally and un-bothered about eugenics and you remember that her childhood bff was a serial murderer and her chosen profession had the word ‘lacerate’ in it and yeah, she’s _about to touch your dick_. Dave Strider, he tells himself, you need all manner of sassy gay friends right now to dissuade you from this extremely unwise course of action that you _ngggh_ -

“F-uck,” she finds his nipples. Theoretical sassy gay friend can go eat a dick. This was the best decision ever.

“What are _these_?”

“Goddamnit Terezi,” he hisses, “This is not biology class. I am not giving a basic anatomy for alien monster girls 101 lesson while you- _shit_ ,” she rolls one under her thumb, snickering her patented “u just got trolled” bro snicker.

“I know what human nipples are, Dave!” she cackles, “I did _research_.”

“... w-what?” he asks, a little breathlessly.

“Who goes into a xenophilic concupiscent situation without doing research first?”

“Yeah, right. Forgot. Sloppy inter-species lovemaking is a thing that happens all the time. What was I thinking- sorry, Mrs. Pyrope. Dog ate my homework. I’ll just have to wing the exam.”

“Don’t worry, Dave,” she manages to wrangle him out of his shirt, _efficient_ hands and knife sharp smile, “I didn’t expect you would. I know how much you love rushing into situations blind. That’s why you fuck up so often.” she says this so sweetly, so _fondly_ that Dave doesn’t actually get out the _what the fuck terezi_ before she kisses him. He stops caring shortly after that because there are more important things to be concerned with like seeing how much of her hair he can get wrapped around his fingers and being relived that she gasps in pleasure when he rocks a knee up between her legs (okay so at least this isn’t going to be all that weird). She cuts his mouth accidentally (he hopes) so he pulls away and she’s all muttering and touching his face needily.

“But I love it when you fuck things up, Dave. No one does it like you- the reckless abandon, the thinly masked shame. I can always smell it vibrating through you like one of your ill raps. You think you hide it so well. It’s-” she stops for a moment and drags two fingers across his lips to taste his blood, “- it’s so cute that you think you can hide it from me. But I’ve learned all your wicked coolkid fandangos. _Dave_ , I know all your dance moves now.”

“Uh-” Dave’s head is too spinny to really question it. Of all the things he would have guessed got Terezi Pyrope off, psychoanalysis was on there but, like, waaaay down the list after blood-letting, cop roleplay and asphyxiation. He rolls with it, “Sure, babe. You’ve got all the complimentary moves, so keep up Ginger.”

“What?”

“Like-” nothing kills momentum faster than having to explain a reference, especially a lame one like that, “Like I’m Fred Astaire and you’re Ginger Rogers and we’re dance partners doing a horizontal rendition of _Flying Down to Rio_.”

Okay, she doesn’t understand at all but apparently it was charming. She ghosts her claws up his neck, dragging her thumb nail across his adam’s apple curiously.

“Your endless string of strange earth references can’t hide your trembling fear, “coolkid”.” Did she... did she just call him that _mockingly_?

“Fear that you’re gonna do some weird alien shit like lay eggs in my silky soft anterior wall, sure. Just bein’ reasonable here, Tz.” her grin turns crooked and secretive and condescending and he is suddenly fucking _pining_ for his shades like he’s fourteen and those shades are on the football team. The way his and Terezi’s legs lay tangled makes it easy for him to use momentum and roll them over. He means to use this superior ground to make a grab for the sunglasses, but he is distracted by this sudden and brand new perspective of the creature known as Terezi Pyrope. Terezi beneath him - long-lashed and pliant - is an entirely different thing than Terezi above him - sharp toothed and predatory - and both deserve equal and fair examination. He eases his hands up her forearms, over her wrists and clasps her tiny hands in his.

“If being on top helps you feel like you’re in control,” she says calmly, “Go for it.”

He kisses her.

“I know how much you need to exert control over your life, even if it’s all imaginary.”

He kisses her again.

“You’ve never really had a choice in anyt-”

He kisses her _again_.

“ _So go ahead_.”

“See, what I thought was going to happen here was on account of me being an olympic gold medalist at kissing - on account of me kissing like the wind during a hurricane just knocked your house down, killed three of yours kids and voided your insurance policy - on account of all that at some point I could come back up for air and you’d be done saying fucked up things.”

She tips her head to the side and oh shit, the problem with being turned on is that every thing she does is somehow unbelievably hot. He tries to think of all the really, terrible, unappealing, disgusting things about Terezi that normally he’d be able to list off like clockwork without hesitation, but searching his lust addled brain reveals only that he’s found everything about her pallid, triangular, velociraptor mouthed existence unbearably attractive since about day one, like right now if you put the fucking colour teal in front of him he’d be all limp goo of baby show me more type some retarded 133tspeak at me immediately, sweet nothings entirely in numbers. It’s like she can sense this and she pulls him down, his cheek to her entirely-too-clothed bosom.

“Good thing you don’t kiss that well,” she says _way too nonchalantly_. Dave inhales and doesn’t breathe out right away.

“ _What_?”

“You’re all fumbling, eager adorable insecurities! You’re always like this, Dave, trying to seem better and cooler than you are. But you’ll never fill Bro’s shoes. They just don’t fit you right and your feet are going to be shaped funny if you keep trying.”

Woah. Shit. Eighteen _thousand_ steps too far. Boner killed. Boner dragged to the gutter and shot point blank with a .45. Boner buried in a mass grave. Boner eulogized ten years later at a school assembly held in honour of this atrocity. Boner forgotten generations later. Dave shoots up and scoops his shades off the floor. He gets his shirt, but doesn’t put it on. Instead he sits on the edge of the bed and tries to catch his breath.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he says out loud, “Holy _shit_ Terezi, what the fuck is wrong with you!?”

“Dave?” she slides up next to him and tries to rest her chin on his shoulder, but he winces away. Oh yeah, Tz, sound all cute and confused. Just keep doing that.

“God. Every time I-” _trust you_ , “What is your fucking obsession with head games? I thought you were taking this shit seriously.” he should have known. They were not things that were made to fit together. They were the same puzzle piece, fucking duplicate crap in a voided bargain bin puzzle. Nice symmetry, but nature hates symmetry and that bullshit was never going interlock no matter how much time (or fun) you spent trying to jam the parts together. Nope. Game over, Strider, your imaginary sassy gay friend was so right. Sorry you told him to eat a dick. Hope he enjoyed it.

“I am taking this seriously,” she sounds affronted. She sounds a little... hurt, “I’m actually trying really hard! This is difficult for me too! It’s hard to be this honest, and it’s not like you’re helping! Your response is actually kind of discouraging!”

“No, Tz, discouraging is you bringing up my dead brother when our genitals are in aroused proximity to each other. Discouraging and creepy.”

“Well, okay. That was probably taking it a little too far I admit.” she sits cross-legged on the bed beside him, hunched over with her elbows on her knees. Her hair is all mussed and her cheeks flushed blue-green. Dave Strider is quelling his attraction so hard, “but Dave, where else was I supposed to go? You were just talking about... Ginger Rio flyovers and homework dogs and other weird earth stuff you always talk about! Do you actually...” and her voice - usually confident and obnoxious and loud - gets all quiet here, “Do you actually even care? It’s like you don’t really pity me at all.”

And then it all clicks into place. Quadrants and colours and flushed and pale- _the quadrants are based around two emotions- pity and hate_. Pity and hate... he hadn’t taken that _literally_.

“We’re-” he runs a frustrated hand through his hair. And here he thought the tab a slot b was going to be the hard part, “We’re talking about entirely different things here, aren’t we?”

“There was a flaw in my research.” she agrees with grim determination, “I will have to revise the parameters of my investigation.”

“Or we could, I dunno Tz, have a conversation.”

“Revolutionary idea, Dave. We never do that.”

“No, not really. Wouldn’t be in this awkward fiasco if we did. I think mostly we just spew horseshit like its the textual equivalent of humping each other’s legs. I’m actually appalled in retrospect at our lack of discretion.”

She twists her bottom lip and scoots over a little so their shoulders are touching, “... so what apparently superior sweet nothing do humans gasp out during the throes of passion?” to her credit, she manages to sound only a little sardonic.

“Oh, just shit not designed with the aim of landing your fuck buddy in a mental institution or crying in the bathroom. You know, like maybe telling them about why you’re bothering to do the bad-boogey-mattress-mambo two-person push-up routine with them in the first place.”

“Not pity,” she clarifies seriously, leaning over, dangerously close to resting her chin on his shoulder after all.

“That’s low on the list usually, but not unheard of.”

“So why,” and the familiar mischief has returned to her voice, “ _Dooooo_ you want to do a bad boogey exercise routine with me, Dave?”

Oh Jesus, “Because,” Strider make this goddamn hilarious, don’t say anything pants on head stupid, “I like...” he reaches up and touches her face absently, “- the way the light hits your cheekbones. They look like fucking seventies architecture- like your face is made of downtown Memphis. Your freaky little whooping laugh lights up my life with the way it belongs on an Animal Planet documentary. Your sense of humour is atrocious and you’re always being sincere when I want to give you like five medals for stone-cold irony. And-” he hesitates. Terezi’s managed to sidle up to him, chin in the crook of his neck and hand on his thigh, “- y-you get me, yeah. I mean. You see me. Or. Smell me I guess.” oh god oh man oh god where is all this sincerity coming from? Words flying out like endless rain into a paper cup. The cup is now filled with shame. Shame smells like a three weeks dead urine encrusted hobo, “What? _What_?”

“Isn’t that pity?” she asks gently.

“No, Pyrope, that’s-” don’t say love don’t say love don’t say love don’t even say something mild like fucking fondness, “ _I want to fuck you_. And I’d be doing that right now if you hadn’t started in with all this, _oh dave you are so deliciously pathetic let me lick your salty tears_ business.”

“That’s what pity is, though,” she hums and it echos all the way down his fucking spine and his ribcage, all ringing in his bones in her really annoying _1 4M S33R OF M1ND 4LL 4BOUT TO 3XPL41N TO YOU TH1NGS 4BOUT YOU_ tone, “Pity is when you see the center of someone... when you see their core in all it’s pathetic glory- and yours is especially glorious, Dave,”

“Terezi,” he warns, but she just chuckles.

“Pity is when you see all of that and you want to possess it. You want to be near it. You _want to bask in it_ like its flavoured strawberry kiwi milkbeast surprise. Pity is when you see all that _delicious_ pathetic and it fascinates you and you want to cross-examine it from all angles and be near it always so you can witness every delectable fall from grace.”

Dave exhales slowly. His hands are shaking a little as he takes that in. He was ready for the sticky, sweaty part but he’s gotta admit- this is a little much. This is a little too wide eyed open emotional intimacy and that was the one big thing Bro pointedly did not train him for.

“ _Jegus_ Terezi,” he mutters, “You should write that in a greeting card.”

“I’m bearing my heart to you and you’re making fun of me?”

“Yeah. I’m kind of an asshole that way. Do you pity me for it?”

“Yes,” she says so easily, so honestly, so sincerely that his heart sort of does this _acrobatic fucking pirouette_ and he gets it. He can’t even think of any ironic rap lyrics from the last ten years to describe all this comprehension that just happened. This is a poetry situation. This is a fucking Shakespeare situation. This is a D. H. Lawrence situation. This is a goddamn _James Joyce_ situation _my love for you allows me to pray to the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes or fling you down under me on that softy belly of yours and fuck you up behind_. Ironic genius. Terezi would love the part about farts. She would think it was genius. She would scold him for showing it to her and then come up with something worse. This is why she is the most perfect girl in the world. He tackles her, aiming for the bed but they kind of get unbalanced and topple to the floor, roll a few times and land with her on top again.

“Tz, babe, you’re hotter than the surface of the fucking sun.”

“Oh?” he touches her face all tender like. He is the master of tender bullshit. Tender like 4-ply toilet paper on a baby’s rear.

“Yeah, but I bet I’m the only one who thinks so. No one in two worlds thinks you’re that hot probably because you’re kind of weird looking and your personality could kill a bus of kids.”

“My, my, Dave, that sounds an awful lot like _pity_.”

“Because it is. Shit, Terezi, this pity’s comin’ out the pores of my skin.”

She leans in close, nose to nose, “Tell me all about it.”

He writes her a rap about it later, but the demonstration is mostly non-verbal.


End file.
